


A Twisted Kind of Paradise

by comtessedebussy



Series: Strippers n' Assassins 'verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Consent Play, Dirty Talk, Feelings, First Dates, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning Sex, Orgasm Control, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sex, Power Play, Protectiveness, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Rough Sex, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised, the romance part of Dean and Cas's relationship, or, the feelings and first dates of emotionally constipated assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Twisted Kind of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> As with every other work in this series, the consent is potentially dubious depending on your perspective. Dean and Cas have come a long way and I like to think that at this point, their relationship is as healthy as it can be, but it is still hardly healthy or exemplary relationship. Please check the tags of this installment as well as previous ones and proceed with caution.

The biggest changes are the ones you don’t even notice.  Like falling in love, they begin slowly – and then plunge you headfirst into a new world that you only recognize after you’ve been in it for an embarrassingly long time.

The change in Dean’s behavior was like that. Sometimes, it was like Dean was a different person – and yet he was still so _Dean_ that it took Castiel an embarrassingly long time to notice that a change had happened.

Perhaps Dean had crossed that line when he branded Castiel with his mark, perhaps when he rescued Castiel from Crowley. But either way, something changed almost imperceptibly.

That fact hit Castiel full-on in the face one night, in a bar – a big huge whammy that made him wonder how he’d missed it before when he knew Dean so well.

They were having a casual night out, drinking beers at a seedy bar, the kind that Castiel thought Dean would never even glance at. But Dean, wearing nothing but a sinful button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking way too classy for the place, somehow also fit in perfectly as he lounged on a ratty old bar stool. Cas sat next to him, sipping his own beer and enjoying the comfortable silence. Behind them, a couple bikers played pool and he could hear the high-pitched giggles of women trying to entice men to buy them a drink.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Castiel heard the words from behind him. Turning, he ran his eyes up and down a tall blonde man with a V-neck and a British accent. The scent of overpriced cologne followed him around the room.

Castiel barely had time to open his mouth before Dean jumped up.

“I don’t think he’s interested,” he said coldly to V-neck guy.

Dean had gotten possessive before, glaring at any man who dared to approach Cas. Hell, Dean had _killed_ men who laid their hands on Cas. Castiel didn’t even bother to protest. He didn’t try to convince Dean not to do something stupid, because Dean didn’t do stupid things. He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes in frustration. Utterly unsurprised by the event, Castiel leaned back against the bar, settling comfortably to watch the ensuing scene. He sipped on his beer delicately as Dean beat the living daylights out of V-neck guy, then moved on to the two assholes who were accompanied him.

A broken bottle, a couple of upended stools, and several concussions later, Dean straightened up, looking…..self-satisfied?

No. His expression was different this time. His entire reaction was different. It wasn’t, Cas realized belatedly, _don’t touch Cas because he’s mine._ It was simply _don’t touch Cas._ Or maybe even _Don’t touch Cas because the likes of you are nowhere near good enough for him._

Dean’s words broke into his train of thought.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean said gruffly. “We’re leaving.”

Castiel momentarily debating arguing with Dean, just for the hell of it, but no, it would be terribly ungrateful to disagree with someone who’s just beaten up three people for you.

 “As you wish,” he complied, following Dean.

Surprisingly, he didn’t feel Dean’s possessive grip on his arm as they walked back to the car. Dean didn’t slam him brutally against a wall as soon as they got home. There was no murmured “mine” in his ear. In fact, the entire evening passed without comment of the event. Weeks ago, that might’ve made Castiel question everything, wondering if Dean no longer wanted him. But now he simply fingered the brand on his skin and raised his eyebrows at Dean’s change in behavior.

Instead, it was Castiel who grabbed Dean when they got home, making him sit still as he examined the cut on his forehead – Dean’s only battle wound – in better lighting. 

“Let me look at that,” he said softly, inserting himself in between Dean’s legs and examining the cut over his eye.

 “I’m fine,” Dean snapped, his irritability springing to life at a moment’s notice.  “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Castiel said patiently, a smile quirking up at the corner of his mouth at Dean’s bullish stubbornness that he loved so much.

Dean’s face softened slightly, and he nodded curtly, feigning nonchalance. Castiel knew, though. He knew.

Castiel fetched the medical kit, with which he was unfortunately acquainted due to that one time Crowley had gotten involved in their life. He cleaned the shallow cut, applying a disinfectant and a bandage. Dean flinched, swearing colorfully. Castiel laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Dean demanded angrily. Castiel knew he wasn’t really angry though. Not really.

“I’ve seen you complain less about being shot,” he pointed out. “You are such a child.”

“ _Don’t_ call me a child,” Dean said, glaring.

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “Or what, oh bloodthirsty and terrifying killer who utterly has me in his power?”

“Or,” Dean murmured, pulling Castiel closer by the hips, “I’ll have you begging for mercy.”

Their faces were barely an inch apart; Castiel could feel the puffs of air against his lips as Dean spoke, could feel the heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. He let his face slide into an expression of shock and fear.

“Oh, not that! Anything but that! Spare me, please!” he whispered theatrically against Dean’s lips.

He watched in amusement as determination filled Dean’s emerald eyes. “Okay, that’s _it,”_ he said, and before Castiel knew what was happening, he was in Dean’s arms, then on the bed, pinned below Dean.

“Are you going to stake your claim on me, oh terrifying killer?” Castiel asked. “Those men dared to challenge it. Don’t you need to reassert that I’m yours?”

In response, Dean ripped the top of Castiel’s shirt open, exposing the brand. “Nah,” he said, kissing the raised mark on his chest. “We both know who you belong to.”

And that was all. Dean pulled away, getting up to change. Castiel lay on the bed for a while, blinking as he stared at the boringly white ceiling. Dean was unbuttoning his shirt with utter nonchalance, as if he’d just gotten home from a boring accounting job and was undressing.

Slipping off the bed, he came up to Dean from behind, putting his arms around the other man’s torso and breathing in the smell of him.

“I need you tonight,” Castiel said.

 Dean turned, pulling Castiel to him by the hips.

“Oh?” he said with a knowing glint in his eyes.

“You know what I need. Please?”

A smile – or a smirk – spread over Dean’s lips.

 “You’ve wanted it since the bar, haven’t you?” he asked. “You want it bad enough to beg. I should’ve bent you over then and there and fucked you for everyone to see, and you would’ve begged me not to stop, right there in front of everyone.”

Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut as he moaned. Dean’s words, said in that gravelly voice, coursed through him, down, down, towards his hardening dick.

“Beg,” Dean ordered.

Castiel responded without a second thought.  “I wanted you to have me there, on the floor, with the glass cutting into my skin and the hard wood of the floor giving me bruises while you fucked me in front of everyone,” he rambled, and once he started he couldn’t stop. “I wanted you to make me scream and beg and plead until I couldn’t make a sound, so that they all knew I was _yours,_ that they weren’t allowed to touch me because you’re the only one who can touch me and make me beg and plead. I wanted them to know that you’re the only one I belong to. I wanted you to hold me down and call me things, terrible things, and I wanted them to know that you could do whatever you wanted to me.”

It was Dean’s turn to groan as he soaked in Castiel’s voice, so sweet and so pleading. His grip on the other man’s hips tightened. “You still haven’t begged,” he said hoarsely. “ _Beg.”_

That one word jolted through Castiel, bringing him to a full hardness.

“Take me,” he begged. “Fuck me as hard as you can, until I’m screaming and then until I can’t scream. Show me that I’m _yours._ Please, do anything you want, just don’t be gentle. Just _take me,_ as if they’re all still watching and as if you need to prove that I’m yours, that I _belong_ to you. Fuck me until I’m begging for mercy and then ignore my pleas for it.”

He found himself running out of breath as he said the words, the excitement of what was to come pushing the breath out of his lungs until his plea became breathless whispers.

Dean’s satisfied moan reverberated through both of their bodies, his hardness meeting Castiel’s. Their lips met a second later, hard, rough, and quick, a mere formality before Dean pushed Castiel to his knees. Castiel sank down willingly, giving his entire body over to the power of the entire man and relishing his surrender to the other man’s strength.

They didn’t even bother to undress; Dean tore away Castiel’s pants and forced him onto his hands and knees on the floor. A second later, Castiel felt a weight on top of him and a hand at his throat. The butt plug he wore precisely for nights like this went flying through the air seconds later, and Dean filled him immediately afterwards.

They both groaned in relief.

Then Dean started moving, and had Castiel begging for mercy in no time. He relished the way in which his raspy voice left his lips, impeded by Dean’s hand on his throat, the way his redundant, almost rhetorical pleas of “ _please_ ” fell on deaf ears, or maybe they were pleas for Dean to not stop, _never stop,_ not even with the rug rubbing burns into his skin and Dean’s nails leaving marks on his skin (a poor substitute for the wood and glass of a seedy bar, but they made do).

He squirmed beneath Dean’s hold, attempting to rub his needy cock on the carpet below him, but Dean only tightened his grip on his throat and commanded _“no._ ” Castiel shivered in anticipation, and his entire body seemed to become hypersensitive, tightly wound like a string on an overtuned violin, waiting for Dean’s next move, his next command, his entire body waiting to be played by Dean, who drove into him mercilessly. Who played his tense and helpless body like a violinist sawing away at an upbeat melody, his wrist at Castiel’s throat until Castiel saw stars and the whole world narrowed to the small sliver of space in front of him and the feel of Dean pounding into him from behind.

It wasn’t the same thing as being fucked in a bar in the aftermath of a fight, on the hard floor, bleeding, but it was just as damn good.

When Dean finally let him come, he screamed, a howling scream that turned into a raspy whisper as his exhausted throat refused to make noise. Exhausted, fucked out, no longer held up by Dean’s strength or his need, he collapsed into the carpet and breathed.

The next thing he knew, Dean was picking him up, bridal style, and planting a kiss on him before carrying him to bed.

Afterwards, they both sank blissfully under the blankets. Dean pulled Castiel close, and this too, had once been a possessive gesture, as if some invisible spectator needed to know that even in the unconsciousness of sleep Castiel was _his._ But now, Dean draped his body around Castiel as a shield, and Castiel snuggled into Dean’s embrace, relishing the strength that would always keep him safe before he fell asleep.

…

On its own, the incident would be almost worth forgetting. But, Castiel soon realized, it fell into a quickly developing pattern.

The next time _it_ happened, the two of them were walking home one night. Castiel wasn’t paying attention to where they were going too much, secure that Dean knew every alleyway and rooftop, every escape route and potential ambush, and had a dozen contingency plans in his head for each one. So he simply walked beside Dean, their amiable silence only occasionally broken by the suggestion of a movie Castiel should watch to “fix his atrocious pop culture knowledge.” He didn’t even notice that their route become progressively shadier – perhaps Dean was feeling bored and reckless tonight, taking a winding, more dangerous route for the Hell of it. It was this that, unsurprisingly, resulted in three thuggish men melting from the shadows, their eyes clearly on Dean’s pricey suit, expensive watch, and fat wallet.

Immediately, Dean placed his own body between Castiel’s and that of the three men. His movements were fluent and practiced as he drew his gun and took up a defensive stance. Castiel stood behind Dean; he reached for his own gun, just in case, but everything in his experience told him Dean could handle this. What surprised Castiel, however, was the way that Dean’s first priority became to shield Cas _with his own body,_ while the gun in his hand became only a second thought.

Dean handled it in the blink of an eye – two men dead from bullets, and the third developing an intimate acquaintance with Dean’s fist. Castiel stood by, admiring Dean’s smooth, practiced motions and the movement of his body as he fought the last of the men.

“You all right?” Dean asked when he was done, and Castiel snorted, because Dean was the one who’d just gotten into a fight, his second in less than a week.

“Fine,” he said. “Thank you,” he added.

Dean shrugged, putting the whole incident off as unremarkable. He offered Castiel his arm, and they walked back home together, Dean looking every part the gentleman leading his beautiful companion home while Cas clung to the arm of his partner and protector.

Back home, they let the lateness of the night carry them to bed. They climbed beneath the thick covers that they both loved to hide beneath, and Castiel lined his body up next to Dean’s, soaking in his warmth. They lay in silence, on their way to drifting off to sleep, when Dean broke it with a few soft words.

 “Hey Cas,” he murmured quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Go on a date with me.”

“What?” Cas rose up on one elbow to look at Dean, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “A date? Why?”

 “Yes or no?”

“You don’t do dates, Dean,” he pointed out. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly the flowers and chocolate type.”

“So that’s a no, then?” Dean asked, and oh, how Castiel hated disappointing Dean.

“It’s not a no, I just don’t understand why you’re suddenly asking me on a date.”

Dean sighed.

The next instant, he was towering above Cas, pinning his hands above his head in an iron grip. His other hand tightened in Castiel’s hair as his eyes stared holes in him. The window let in just enough moonlight to make Dean’s face a play of light and shadow and all the more threatening for it.

“I want you to go on a date with me,” Dean said. His voice was cold, level, and uncompromising. “And you know better than anyone what I’m like when I’m disappointed. So, Cas, honey, go on a date with me.”

“Yes,” Cas said instantly. He relished the familiarity of this, Dean above him, lethal and demanding. The word fell from his lips as if on cue, the whole scene one in a multitude of variations of their normal state of things.

“That’s better,” Dean said, instantly smiling. He released Cas, sinking back down into the pillows.

“I hope you have something special in mind,” Castiel pointed out. “Since you like to spoil us so much, I have a hard time imagining what would make something special enough to be a date.”

He had a point, he knew it, and he knew Dean knew it. Dean had never refused him anything, spending money on clothes, food, travel, and entertainment without counting. They’d had dinner on rooftops and restaurants the bills for which could probably feed small starving villages. They’d travelled the world, stayed in all the most luxurious hotels, visited Paris and Rome and Berlin and the capitals of the world and honestly? Castiel couldn’t think of anything he wanted but couldn’t have.

“I’ll think of something,” Dean said, adding a wink when Castiel looked at him.

Castiel had no doubt of it, and he snuggled into Dean’s arms with the comforting thought that he loved it when Dean surprised him. Dean pulled him close again, covering Castiel’s body and keeping him close and safe.

“You’re not going to fuck me?” Cas murmured sleepily.

He felt Dean’s huff of breath against his neck. “I think you’re a little too worn out for that, Cas.” Dean murmured against his skin. They’d had a job today, during which they’d managed not one but two rounds of quickie sex, and Dean knew that he was pleasantly sore bordering on the not so pleasantly exhausted.

“I’ll fuck you in the morning,” he suggested in response to Castiel’s noise of protest.

“Hmm.” Castiel turned, snuggling tightly into the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean pulled him closer and they drifted off.

…

In the morning, Cas was awoken by the feel of lips on his skin, snaking up his torso and turning into playful bites when they got to his neck. His eyes fluttered open to the sight of the sunlight falling gently into their room, covering Dean’s head with a halo as his emerald eyes, bright and wide-awake, sparkled.

“Mmmmm,” Cas murmured contentedly, trying to sink deeper into the mattress as Dean lavished his skin with affection.

“Would you say I’m a man of my word, Cas?” Dean murmured against his skin.

“Yes,” Castiel replied blissfully, letting his eyes flutter closed. That’s why he felt rather than seeing Dean’s sudden movement. He mewled in protest as Dean sat up and stopped kissing him, then felt himself flipped over roughly.

“I promised I’d fuck you in the morning,” Dean drawled as he started working Castiel open. “And I keep my promises.”

“Mmmmph,” was all Castiel said, still not fully awake but quickly getting there. Dean’s fingers weren’t gentle, but they were efficient. They played with his hole, not too concerned about making him feel good but perfectly effective at working him open bit by bit, efficiently, until Castiel felt just barely wide enough to take Dean. Despite the almost impersonal nature of Dean’s ministrations, Cas felt himself hardening at Dean’s touch. Dean was touching him, Dean was going to fuck him, to _use_ him, and the thought made him hard.

“Please,” he murmured into the pillow.

“Getting there, Cas,” he heard Dean’s voice, gruff and breathless. He could feel Dean’s cock, hard against his skin, impatient to be inside Castiel. But not as impatient as Castiel was to be filled with Dean’s cock.

Castiel squirmed, raising his ass in the air in the process. He didn’t care how awkward and ridiculous he looked, he _needed_ Dean inside him, _now._

“Dean, _please,_ ” he repeated.

Dean took his offering. First there were Dean’s fingers, driving into Castiel’s hips to hold him steady, or to leave bruises, or both, and then there was Dean’s cock, sliding into him, fitting just barely, the stretch just enough to be delicious, just short enough of painful to be delightful.

“You’ve got a tight little hole, Cas. I thought I’d fucked your slutty little hole enough to fix that, Cas.”

“Guh,” was all Cas could say.

“Then again, I like it nice and tight.” Dean ran a hand up Castiel’s back, still staying infuriatingly still. “I know no one but me touches that slutty whole of yours. It’s nice and tight because I’m the only one that gets to fuck it so wide that my come is running down your legs.”

“Yes,” Castiel whispered, hoping with that one word to communicate that Dean should never, _ever,_ stop talking to him that way.

He moved, hoping with that movement to get _Dean_ to move, to tell him that he couldn’t take it anymore, another second of staying still and he’d explode, but all he got from Dean in return was a harsh slap on his ass.

“You’re gonna stay still and take it like the fucking whore you are, got it? Don’t you dare move,” Dean ordered.

Castiel froze. He knew the consequences of not doing what Dean said. He wouldn’t get to come.

Instead, he dug his hands into the bedspread and bit the pillow, every inch of his body tense as a tightly wound cord in the effort not to move. Dean, on the other hand, took that as a cue to start moving, driving into Castiel’s still, pliant body ruthlessly.

It took all of Castiel’s self-control and more to stay still as Dean fucked him. He could feel the sweat running down every inch of his body, as if he were doing something more exerting than _staying still._ Dean took his sweet time, driving into Castiel ruthlessly and yet managing to stretch the entire act out into agonizing minutes, which seemed to crawl by as if in slow motion.

“Dean!” Castiel gasped, shaking, trembling, _needing._

In response, he felt Dean come inside him with a contented moan. He took that as his cue, letting his orgasm rush forth like too much water held up behind a damn, until he was shaking like a leaf with each spurt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt Dean’s hands around him, this time holding him gently as his orgasm wracked his body and his breathing slowly returned to normal.

When he was done, Dean flipped him over again, planting a sweet, lengthy kiss on his lips. Castiel felt himself drown in the sweetness of those lips, in the bliss of those arms. How could he ever be any happier?

 

“Shall I make dinner tonight?” Dean asked when their lips came apart. Castiel blinked up at him, relishing the sight of the sun-drenched golden god propped up against him.

 “Sure,” he agreed. Dean was a good cook, and the meals he crafted were always elaborate, tasty, spicy, savory, and as painstakingly done as everything Dean laid his hands to.

 

That night, Dean made a spicy Indian dish, the flavors drenching the meat and rice melting in his mouth. It was like an orgasm in his mouth. Castiel had said that once, to Dean’s general amusement.

“I like being your only source of orgasms,” he’d said.

He leaned back in his chair, full and content and suddenly very sleepy. Dean smiled from across the table.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Castiel admitted. “You wore me out pretty early today.”

“Well, don’t fall asleep at the table,” Dean retorted. “I don’t want to carry you.”

Castiel snorted. “But you would.” He leaned his head back on the chair, beginning a fairly credible imitation of deep snoring. He wasn’t quite sure at what point pretending to sleep turned into actually being asleep, but it can’t have been long. He drifted off without even realizing it.

He woke up again with the sun on his face. Dean must’ve carried him to bed, despite all his protests, and let him sleep til morning. Since when did he get so lazy, Castiel wondered, stretching and –

Seeing the room they were in. Because that, that was certainly not the view out of their penthouse. And, Castiel realized – that was not their bedroom. That wasn’t their walls or their curtains or their floor to ceiling mirrors or their plush carpeting and equally plush furniture.

He blinked again, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he took in the lavish suite around him.

It all definitely looked like it belonged to a monarch who’d had his head chopped off for a good reason.

Dean was sitting on the bed beside him, fully clothed, clearly waiting for him to wake up, and also completely at ease.

 “Dean?” he called, turning his head.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Where are we?” he asked sleepily.

“Paris.”

“You drugged me,” Castiel accused.

“Yes,” Dean acquiesced casually.

“And transported my unconscious body across a national border,” he continued, finding that as his body slowly adjusted to being awake, the pleasant feeling of surprise and intoxication spread through his well-rested limbs.

 “Yes.”

“Why?”

“You said you wanted to be surprised. This is part of the surprise.”

 “Ah.” He paused, looking around and taking in his surroundings with more attention now that he was awake. His jaw dropped. The entire suite was the size – well, the size of their entire penthouse, and that was really large. The bed itself was huge and elaborate, draped regally with curtains. Throughout the room, elaborate furniture, from recliners to sofas, littered the suite…The entire place was decorated like a palace in every detail, and he could see a chic Parisian street from the window. His first though that it looked like a palace wasn’t wrong. He was having trouble believing he wasn’t at Versailles, save for the view from the window.

“What _is_ this place?” he wondered aloud.

“Imperial Suite at the Ritz. It was the most impressive thing I could think of, short of sneaking you into Buckingham Palace.”

“And you opted for the legal option?” Castiel asked, raising his eyebrows.

Dean shrugged. “Technically, I kidnapped you,” he pointed out.

“Right,” Castiel agreed.

The feeling of being pleasantly surprised grew, mixing with the excitement that pushed him out of bed to get dressed. He looked around for his clothes, finding their two suitcases standing neatly by the bed.

“You had time to pack both our suitcases, and get me here, and arrange everything? In a day?” he asked, impressed.

Dean shrugged. “It’s not like you’re a picky dresser.”

He watched as Castiel donned slacks and a button up. Dean’s method of dressing all in suits had worn off on him, and he found himself wearing formalwear almost all the time.

“So, when’s our date?” he asked, turning to Dean.

“Tonight.”

Castiel nodded, pulling Dean closer.

“Well, I’m surprised,” he said. “And impressed.” He leaned in for a quick kiss of gratitude. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Just wait til you see the rest,” Dean deflected, but Castiel could tell he was pleased as well.

They spent the day strolling through Paris, pointedly avoiding the Tuileries, Luxembourg, Louvre, and Notre Dame.  “Fucking tourists,” Dean muttered. Castiel looked at him, seeing in his mind’s eye Dean as a monarch, ruling from the Louvre and not allowing anyone near his perfect castle. It was a pleasant image.

They strolled by the Seine, kissed on a bridge (no, not the stupid one with the locks married people put on it, thank you very much), and pickpocketed a few tourists. Castiel made no remark other than raised eyebrows at this revelation of yet another of Dean’s skills.

Eventually, evening fell, with the sun painting its gorgeous colors across the sky and glinting off the rooftops. They returned to their hotel, changing from one pristine suit to another in a facsimile of dressing up for their “date.” Castiel picked out a dark blue suit that Dean had once told him (in passing) went with his eyes, and stood before the mirror nervously.

He felt like a giddy teenager before his first date, waiting to be swept off his feet by Prince Charming.

An assassin Prince Charming, but that made him all the more special.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. He’d been kidnapped, shot at, tortured, branded, fucked with a gun, and almost shot point blank by Dean himself. Somehow, none of those things made him as nervous as a date with Dean. Everything they had together was already so perfect that Castiel woke up some mornings terrified that it might have all been a dream – which meant that he had absolutely no idea what to expect tonight. He just knew that whatever it was, he’d love it. It’d be perfect.

He’d be with Dean, so of course it’d be perfect.

“Ready?” Dean asked, running appreciative eyes up and down Castiel’s suit-clad form.

“Yes,” Castiel breathed. Dean offered him an arm, and he took it. If the passersby and other hotel guests glanced their way at the sight of two men, linked arm and arm, they didn’t notice.

“Will you tell me where you’re taking me yet?” Castiel asked.

“No.”

Castiel sighed. It was useless to argue – and all the more exciting that way.

They took several winding passages left over from medieval Paris, descended some steps, and ended up somewhere dark and chilly.

 “Where are we?” Castiel asked.

“The catacombs,” Dean said, pulling a flashlight out of somewhere. “They’re an underground network that spans all of Paris. Also a cemetery,” he added, pointing to what Castiel realized were …skulls. Lining the walls. Floor to ceiling.

Castiel didn’t even realize his mouth had dropped open.

“This is where we’re going for our date?” he asked.

“Don’t sound so disappointed. You’re fond of creepy and morbid,” Dean retorted, offering a hand that Castiel took. “Come on,” he said, expertly leading Castiel through the dark and winding passageways until they came to a larger area, lit warmly with candles, with a well-set table in the middle and a space heater next to it. Skulls and bones lined the walls here too, floor to ceiling, but the set table looked cosy and secluded – just how they liked it.

“Shall we?” Dean gestured. He pulled a chair back for Castiel before taking his own seat. Castiel smirked as he settled in, pleasantly flattered by Dean’s gentlemanly solicitousness.

Dean settled in across from him. The candlelight fell onto his face in just the perfect ways, making his already beautiful face a gorgeous play of light and shadow, something dark and devilish hiding in the depths of his eyes to contrast with the way he seemed to glow in the soft light. If Castiel had had a camera, he’d have taken a picture – the view was perfect, with the wall of skulls and bones behind Dean providing the sort of background that’d be perfect for one of those dark evil villain photoshoots.

With a flourish, Dean uncovered the platters of food, conveniently set out on the large table and waiting for them. It was simple food, definitely not very Parisian (burgers, fries, beer), but all of it was cooked exactly how Castiel liked it and completely, absolutely, perfect.

“How did you manage all this?” Castiel asked, shocked at the perfectly cooked food, the prepared table – and not a soul in sight.

“Oh, I know a few people,” Dean said casually. “Don’t worry, no one will come to disturb us. That’s one of the perks of being down here.”

They dug in without further ado, Castiel moaning in pleasure at the burger hit his taste buds. He saw Dean smile, no doubt satisfied at Castiel’s moans, before digging in to his own food.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

 “So,” Castiel began, unable to hold off any longer.

“Hmm?”

“Dean, where is this going?”

Dean looked up at him, staring.

“I mean, usually people date and get to know each other and fall in love and choose to be together and…well, we did it rather backwards, didn’t we? So where are the dates taking us?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, Cas. I just wanted us to have one.”

Castiel nodded. “I like this,” he said, gesturing around them. “A lot. But I just want you to know that I’m happy with what we have. We don’t have to go anywhere with this, because I think we’re where we want to be.”

This was the first time they’d really spoken of their relationship in such open terms. It felt strange, to be discussing relationship dynamics with a wanted murderer – but somehow it felt right. Even if said murderer had essentially kidnapped him and taken him to a different country. It’d have been stranger, Castiel thought, if Dean bought him flowers and took him to a restaurant. _Then_ he’d start to worry.  

Dean managed to look self-satisfied.

“Good,” he said, but there was something softer and kinder than self-satisfaction in his eyes.

They finished their food, then their dessert (luscious chocolate cake), and then Dean pushed his chair back to stand up. Castiel glanced up, surprised at the abruptness of it, but Dean didn’t look like he was leaving. Instead, he went over to a shadowy corner and tinkered with something, after which a soothing, slow music filled the underground cavern.

Dean offered the still-seated Cas his hand. “Dance with me?” he asked, and it didn’t sound quite like a question.

Castiel rose obediently, taking Dean’s hand and letting himself be drawn into the taller man’s embrace. Dean pulled him over to a smoother section of floor, holding him close as they swayed to the music.

Castiel rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, relishing the feeling of being in Dean’s arms. Dean made him feel so safe; Castiel knew Dean would always look after him, would always protect him. He put his hands around Dean’s waist, sliding him under Dean’s suit, relishing Dean’s strong, firm frame against his and running a hand over the gun he was wearing. He smiled, and Dean chuckled too.

Yes, Dean would always protect him, and there was the proof, in his hand, that Dean would put a bullet through anyone who dared touch him. Dean was his tall, strong protector, his fearless prince, who would hold him tight and never let go. And, as if on cue, Dean’s hands tightened around Castiel even further, pressing their bodies together and allowing Castiel to relish the warmth and safety of Dean’s embrace. “Mine,” he whispered softly in Castiel’s ear, and Castiel shivered in satisfaction. He was Dean’s; nothing would ever take him from Dean. Dean would never _let_ anything take Castiel from him.

“I love you,” he said softly, not daring to look at Dean as he murmured it. He felt Dean still against him, his body suddenly tense, surprised at an unexpected avowal of emotion.

He finally let his eyes meet Dean’s, shyly. They were looking at him incredulously, the calm, composed, confident, _controlled_ veneer suddenly missing. “I – “

“You don’t have to say it, Dean,” Cas said softly. “I know.”

“Good,” Dean murmured, pulling Cas in for a kiss.

“The plan for the rest of the night,” Dean murmured against his lips, “is to break all the furniture in our room by fucking on it.”

“Good plan.”

“I mean _all_ the furniture. I’m fucking you until you can’t walk,” Dean said, and to any other man it would’ve sounded like a threat.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Cas agreed.

 


End file.
